Harrison is entering this stage where he’s kind of a punk & I mean that with all the love in my heart.  But as I said before, it’s like he did lines of pixie sticks & rage.  My voice is worn from saying “Do not bite!” & “Knees or bottom!” or “Do not spit!” & then having him laugh hysterically & then do EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT I ASKED.  This phase stole my obedient baby from me.  While daycare is having some incredible benefits, it’s also forcing us to realize how sheltered he was for over two years.  He’s learned to say “mine!” & unfortunately doesn’t realize yet that while it’s okay to stand up to his peers over who gets to play with the toy firetruck next, standing up to Momma & Daddy is not okay.  So when I say “Harrison, it is bathtime.  Would you like a bath or shower?” & he stands stiff & screams “NO!!!!!!!!” at me & I swear to God that I want to drown myself in a bottle of tequila.  Because that’s after he’s spit ravioli & been asked to leave the table & then kicked over his trains & chased the dog with his toy lawnmower.

The biggest problem is that my parents aren’t huge drinkers, which means they keep their Merlot in the fridge & I’ve had to drink berry wine coolers all week.

On the other hand, I’ve found that toddlers are a lot like dogs.  If they start disobeying, just take them out for a walk where they are burning that aggressive energy but being forced to obey.  I don’t put a leash on Harrison…yet.

We’re going to Carowinds tomorrow, courtesy of BlogHer, so I assume my Twitter feed will either be “THIS IS AMAZING!” or “SEVENTH CIRCLE OF HELL!” depending on Harrison’s mood tomorrow.  I’m hoping it’s the former because Doug loves theme parks & I’m really looking forward to a family day together.

These are my friends who are pretty & sarcastic.  They took me out for a beer to save me from the wine coolers.

Don’t be mad, but I honestly don’t remember how we met.  I don’t remember whether it was a comment on a blog or Twitter or a message board, but I do know it was friendship-at-first-site. (Get it?  Site!)

I have sat down to your words & life for the past two years, feeling like we might as well be sharing a cup of coffee together over the kitchen table.  That’s what your writing does & why you are so talented - you take the joyful & the ugly in life & turn it into something we all feel & relate to as a friend.  Remember that first morning of Blissdom where we sat cross-legged on the beds & talked so long that we almost missed breakfast & the opening speaker?  It was like reading your blog, but in real life with real words.  Funny.  Honest.  Self-depracating in the most humble way.

What’s happening isn’t something you dreamed or asked for, but you are handling it with such a strong grace that I am honored to be your friend.

You are reminding mommas of our love & devotion to our babies.

You are reminding us of our job as protectors, as champions, & the momma bear we all have within.

You are facing the war on women head-on, whether you realize it or not, by challenging our ideas on the right to choose, the right to life, the right to receive compassionate care.

& you’re doing it the most unassuming, graceful way…like always.

Thanks for being you, friend.

follow diana’s journey here

This kid, he bear-hug loves his momma.

& his momma loves him back.

I came alive as Harrison’s mother over the past few months.  The doubts & lack of confidence & inability to focus simply shed away & I’m not sure whether it was from the sunshine in the backyard or being the boss of my own day or his incredible tiny grin.   But I came alive in the happiest & most fulfilling way possible, all the way down to my toes until motherhood felt like a calling to my soul.  Driving through town with the windows down & groceries in the backseat, I’d flick my eyes to the rearview mirror & catch Harry’s smile & I would think to myself YES.

Yes, motherhood.

Yes, incredible joy & worthwhile sacrifice & overwhelming love.

Yes, I’ve finally got it.

I’ve always been a little off-beat but I think the oddest thing is that the longer I’m with Harrison, the more I mother, the less tired & overwhelmed I feel.  Two hours can bring me to my knees but three months home can be a balm to the soul where we’ve figured our quirks & my patience surprises me with its ability to simply roll with the tide, even when there’s a gallon of milk on my floor.  To where he’s the beat of my heart & being without him feels like I might as well leave my right arm with him, too.  Here, take my kidney too.

Only three months & already I feel lost without his little arms wrapped around my legs but the penchant is still there to count everything & it’s a private joke that only I know when I lift the second half of my sandwich & think “two” & I smile.  My new boss must think I’m strange & maybe I am, but I’m a momma above all, even with my fingers flying above a keyboard.

“So I unload the top of the dishwasher, then peek out to check. Unload the bottom dishwasher & peek out to check. Wipe down the counters & brew a cup of coffee & head outside for another 30 minutes.” ~from my Babble.com post

The comments poured in, different opinions & questions & then first neglect, then abuse.  oh, the rage.  It was strong.  Not because someone disagreed with my parenting choices or felt they were wrong – I highly expect that for every decision I make regarding my child.  I formula fed & suffered postpartum depression & don’t spank my child so if you think I still have a thin skin regarding parenting choices, try again.

My rage came from blatantly flippant use of the words “abuse” & “neglect.”

Definition of child abuse (per dictionary):
mistreatment of child: severe mistreatment of a child by a parent, guardian, or other adult responsible for his or her welfare, e.g. physical violence, neglect, sexual assault, or emotional cruelty

Definition of child neglect (childhelp.org):
Failure to provide for a child’s physical needs. This includes lack of supervision, inappropriate housing or shelter, inadequate provision of food and water, inappropriate clothing for season or weather, abandonment, denial of medical care and inadequate hygiene.

My child playing 10 feet away where I can hear & see him easily is not severe mistreatment.  Him learning independent play in a secure environment where I am seconds away is not careless disregard.

It makes me wonder if those that throw those harsh words around so easily have ever seen true neglect & abuse first-hand.  If they’ve ever lived with a nine-year-old boy that only weighs 40 lbs because his mother bought drugs instead of food.  If they’ve ever had to carry a hyperventilating six-year-old out of a store because a piece of glitter landed on her hand & she had a flashback to years of child pornography.  If they’ve ever sat with social workers for hours as part of a home study & heard a little boy say he was given to the devil.  Because I have & those are memories that marked my heart forever to where the word “abuse” is as strong as a racial slur or the R-word.

Child abuse & neglect are powerful words, real words that are real in our society.  They are the children that are starved & beaten & locked in closets, torn apart at the hands of people they know, molested & left for days.  Every ten seconds, a report of child abuse is made.  More than five children die every day as a result of abuse.  Child abuse is serious & it is a serious allegation.

I beg you to be mindful of the words used to describe another parent’s actions.  Are they truly abusing their child, causing danger to the child’s overall well-being?  Or is it a simple heated discussion where you feel you are right, by golly? 

Let’s talk about parenting.  Let’s share ideas & concerns & hopes & fears.  Feel free to disagree with me respectfully & accept that I may defend my stance.  But let’s have this parenting discourse responsibly.

If you do see child abuse & neglect happening, please call the National Child Abuse Hotline at 1-800-422-4453.

Our boy.

He doesn’t talk the way other kids his age do.

I’ve known it for over a year, watching him & practicing & my heart hurting the way he seems to struggle.  The way he doesn’t quite form the words & I know that part of him being so quiet is the perfectionist trait he inherited from his momma, not wanting to try unless he knows he can succeed.  The way my heart burst one thousand times when he put two words together on his own in January, saying “Bye-bye, moon!” when we went inside & I nearly cried.  How many times I’ve cried, out of pure joy when he says a word clearly & in frustration when he is screaming & I’m begging him to please, please use a word or show Momma, but no screaming.  How once & twice a week for the past six months, I’ve sat on the floor in speech therapy, taking mental notes for ways to play with him, read to him, teach him to use language.

I don’t understand it because language has always come easily for me, from talking to reading & writing.  I may not always know what to say, but I always have something to say.  It is so different with my boy, who sits quietly while we race monster trucks & bake wooden cookies.

I know this is a “common” thing, especially for young boys.  I hear stories of kids that open their mouths for the first time with full sentences when they are four & stories of apraxia with years of therapy.  There are people that tell me to wait it out, that he’ll speak someday.  There are others that warn me against waiting too long, that push for a diagnosis.  We are doing what feels right for our son.  All other opinions are just unwelcome noise. 

He is my baby & I am his momma & I love the parts of him that are hard for me to grasp.

There was no dinner in the oven, the child was shoeless & filthy, toddler bedding was strewn across the living room floor, & my hair was in a top knot with a bandana holding back my bangs.  In short?  We were a hot, hot mess.  If Doug had asked me what I did all day (you know, if he wanted to have his balls for dinner), then I would have simply said that I kept his kid alive for one more day.

Oh, sure.  I had plenty of aspirations including homemade chicken pot pie for dinner & dessert in the oven for the basketball championship game.  When I woke up that morning, I imagined booking an extra hour while the boys did their nightly game of chase in the backyard.  Then reality took over – Harrison slept in a little bit, I took him out for breakfast before we went grocery shopping & he was perfectly behaved the entire morning.  Then he dumped tomato soup on his head & needed a mid-day bath, my laptop battery died, & I found two molars blistering through his gums all before naptime.  We spent the rest of the day “camping” in a Thomas the Train tent & coloring (only making it into the coloring book 50% of the time, RIP Melissa & Doug puzzle).

Nothing that mothers don’t deal with on a regular basis.  Nothing that I didn’t face in the office with other work.  Nothing to complain about or make a fuss over, but just the little things that take away from the moments in the day & I look up & oh my, how is it 5:30pm already?!  I haven’t worked or made dinner or cleaned the house or done anything that leaves a tangible response.

I called my mother the next morning & she reassured me that in her many years at home, she had days like that where the clock flew faster than the to-do list.  & that there were many times where “Honey! The children are still alive!” was worth celebrating.

He burries his nose further into my neck, shifting in my lap until his legs drape down across the sides & I think back to flannel swaddling blankets.  His hand grabs my pajamas & finds it’s way into my shirt until his little palm rests upon my belly, soft from pregnancy & motherhood.  He snuggles down further until his head rests against my chest & he’s listening to my heartbeat & comforted.  He knows me inside & out, the same way I know him.

I think back to the times when I was told that this bonding would not happen as long as he fed from a bottle.  I remember the comments about how nothing could compare to the bond between a child & nursing mother & I wonder why I take that phrase so personally.  How two years later, those thoughts still sting me because I love my baby, too & I think we’re pretty okay together.  I worried I would never experience my child needing me physically & now he finally calms as his head rests against the breasts that never fed him, & I know that bonding flows deeper than milk in all mothers & babies.

So when Harrison starts screaming at bedtime & I’ve told him firmly to get back in bed three separate times, he stares up at me with tears falling & says, “Up!!”  oh, my heart.

I find myself all sternly inner-dialoguing how I’m setting us up for failure when he’s three as I make my way to the rocking chair.  But then I remember how I’m knee-deep in my uterus & how soon, Harry will be going to sleepovers where he will be embarrassed to ever admit he was rocked to sleep & I can’t help myself.  I sit & I rock & tell him stories about the man on the moon until he’s calm.  His heartbeat slows & his breathing steadies & I know he’s asleep because that’s the kind of thing that mother’s just know.

He’s drooling on my shoulder.  It’s time to put the kiddo to bed, but in his earlier rage, all blankets & pillows ended in a pile on the floor.  Which means that I have to get up from the chair & put the bedding back together with 30 lbs of live ammunition on my shoulder.  Doug to the nursery, I think into the universe.  I wait a few minutes.  Hey, buddy.  To the nursery for pillow recon.

I contemplate the length of my legs, wondering if I can grab the pillow corner with my toes & toss it into the bed.  If I can do that, then I’ll have a legit excuse to run away with the circus.  I feel the drool seeping through my jammies.  The kid stirs & I freeze & send imaginary red flares into the sky. & I’m all WHY IS HE NOT READING MY ESP?!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!

What good is being married almost six years if he can’t read my mind?

11:45pm on Christmas Eve, putting in the 417th screw & an empty whisky glass beside me.

As I said a wee bit ago, we do Santa in our home.

When I wrote that little manifesto, I held so much anticipation in my heart for the coming Christmas Eve.

That night, we sang by candlelight in church & ate spaghetti with family around the dining room table.  Later than normal, Doug & I tucked a very sleepy Harrison into bed with Christmas jammies & The Polar Express.  After changing into comfy clothes & pouring whisky & gingers, we sat down on the living room rug with Santa’s presents.  We began with the most challenging piece, Harrison’s play kitchen.  Over the next two hours, Doug & I laughed & talked about the past year.  How much Harrison has grown, how he will love his new toys, how this season has been so amazing with his ability to participate.  With Christmas carols playing in the background, I really got it.

Watching the presents come together, presents I bought for my little boy, carefully selecting what I thought he might like.  I realized that these twelve hours between bedtime & Christmas morning were a parent’s best part of the year.  The sacrifice & joy & complete infatuation with my child, all coming together on one day.  When we laid down a little past midnight, I felt more excitement as a parent than as a child on Christmas, simply imagining his reaction at the gifts by the tree.

& Harrison’s smile on Christmas Day did not disappoint.

p.s. there are 360 days until harry is three at christmas & i cannot freakin’ wait.

Not because the thoughts aren’t there.  They are there, spilling over madly because this blog is the capture of life & oh, life is being lived right now.

The up & down & GO GO GO! of life where I am sitting in conference rooms at 8:30am & shoving a sandwich in at my desk, prepping for the afternoon’s conference call.  A new assignment that has me flattered & overwhelmed, determined to show the boss that yes! I can do this!  The texting of insurance cards & jotting down ideas & making sure we have all the ingredients for dinner & no, Harrison, you cannot have a cookie for dinner.

The epic meltdown occurs & I’m standing there at the end of the day, shoes kicked off & button-down blouse still on & stirring boiling pasta.  I look at him & close my eyes, taking deep breaths & trying out that 1-2-3 magic but on myself.  He is maddeningly two & woke up this morning on a mission to test all the limits.  A piece of me wants to throw up my hands in frustration, but I look back down at him & all I can do is wrap him up in my arms.

He’s here tonight.  My friend Beth is not so lucky as her little boy Keegan went to Heaven today.  Keegan, not three weeks older than my own little boy.

I am undone.  Completely raw for the day in my stocking feet & a little boy who does not understand why his momma is hugging him instead of using the usual exasperated tones at dinnertime.

I put him in bed & pull the red & aqua cover to his chin & I think that I cannot handle Chicka Chicka Boom Boom one more time, but then I remember the momma’s who never got to read it, or who won’t get to read it.  I wonder if it would be silly to ask God to maybe read Keegan Chicka Chicka Boom Boom one night, just to let him know we’re thinking of his momma’s heart?  & so I pick up that board book, starting to show signs of wear after only a few months because it is loved so.

& my heart, showing signs of wear because it has loved so.

So yes, life is spilling over & I am left breathless & awkward in it’s path.